


Psychotic Break

by Lue4028



Series: Psychotic Break [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Desperation, F/M, Jealous Sherlock, Jealousy, Love/Hate, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:52:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lue4028/pseuds/Lue4028
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets admitted to the mental hospital at Barts after Sherlock's suicide, and the moment he gets released, Sherlock returns, intent on sending him back. Or perhaps.. he just never left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psychotic Break

Sherlock is leaning in the doorway, flashing a lean smile. His shirt collar is unbuttoned one button more than usual, and his shirt is too tight, as usual. His head is buried into the threshold, he looks like a playgirl model with the long stretches of neck muscle and collar bone. The way he holds himself, he’s begging to be torn out of that trim and proper button-down shirt that he’s abusing, despite it’s something in the hundreds price tag.

“John.”

“You have something of mine.”

“You left it on the coffee table,” Sherlock indicates the box of John’s possessions planted on the table.

“If you knew, you could have said something, spared us the trip back.”

“Oh, don’t be like that John. We brought take out, Sherlock,” Mary appears in the doorframe, next to John, and lifts up Chinese for him.

“Mary. You know I’m not much interested in food,” he drawls, tossing the door open because he’s too lazy to hold it, and plods back into the living room, world-weary because it must be so hard to lounge about all day in a strop. The way his hips move beneath the crisp line of his belt, all sluggish swagger, makes John’s hand tighten on Mary’s.

“Which is why you’re dying,” she says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes scoffing at the ridiculous notion he could die by something so pedestrian and banal as not eating-- like that’s reserved for the mere mortals.

“It’s no use, you know. He won’t eat it,” John sighs, picking up his box of indispensible jumpers. He’s half convinced Sherlock has taken up a hunger strike just to get him to come back home. Rummaging through the box's contents, he sees that the Christmas jumper with the red collar is missing. He glares accusatively at Sherlock, splayed out on his armchair.

“Well, we’ll just have to stay and make sure he does,” Mary smiles down at him, and Sherlock blinks at her.

It’s been a month since John had visited last, and Sherlock looks ridiculous, aching with want, bursting at the seams. He’s too horny to sit still, practically liquid in his chair, playing footsie to the point John wants to kick him. He gives John a steamy look, that John stares dead-on at for a full minute, before he pushes out his chair, tosses his plate in, stands to get himself seconds.

He seats himself back down beside Sherlock, so he doesn’t have to endure Sherlock’s sex stares a moment longer. Mary is on his right at the head of the table. Sherlock is playing with his food. John is rubbing his temple, staring at Sherlock play with his food. Sherlock smirks at the irate look on John’s face as he spirals his fork into noodles. John sourly regrets switching, because this side of the table is so much worse.

“Broccoli?” Sherlock asks, trying to shove the greens onto John’s plate.

“No thanks.”

John watches him pick away at the singular sprout with his fork, with an increasingly deep frown on his square jaw. Eventually he takes Sherlock’s fork, spirals a wad of noodles onto it, and shoves it in his mouth. Mary pretends not to laugh.

Sherlock looks dumbstruck at first, but then he swallows and his lips reform that atrocious smile. Now he’s playing with the fork in his mouth, biting his lip. He looks like lust, his shirt’s falling off one shoulder, peeling off gleaming white skin. His knee takes to nudging against John’s incessantly, and eventually John just grips it. Sherlock’s all over the place, boneless, out of control, but it’s all perfectly intentional. It’s always perfectly calculated with Sherlock, even when he goes off the bend. John knows he’s laughing internally, teasing, being intentionally torturous, because he knows John won’t touch him.

John digs his fingernails into Sherlock’s inseam in internal anguish and Sherlock squeaks.

“You ok?” Mary asks.

”Yes, fine.”

“Just don’t choke.”

“As that would defeat the purpose of all of this keeping you alive business,” John tails on ironically.

“I think I’d prefer to choke to death,” Sherlock drawls lamely at the broccoli, fork distrustfully nudging it away, “Think you could help a fellow out?” Sherlock asks John playfully, employing kinky sexual innuendo tactics now, it seems.

John snaps. Sherlock is asking to be strangled, and he wants to strangle him, stifle that long, pale throat that’s baiting him with his hands. But he can’t.

“You don’t need my help to kill yourself, clearly,” John’s mouth turns into a cold, controlled, hard-pressed smile and the amusement on Sherlock’s face drops off, blood running cold. John’s fingers delve into the ligaments inside his knee, this time rubbing softly, massaging in circles. Sherlock shivers and immediately calms down, stance slackening a bit, his legs parting a touch wider. He knows to be good now, that he’s treading on thin ice.

Mary turns to John, concerned,. “You ok?” she asks, and caresses his face in attempt to console his bitter sentiments, “Yes I’m fine,” he whispers back.

Sherlock is completely silent now, while Mary’s soothing voice tries to guide John back to a more healthy train of thought. The brunet looks away, hiding the flush on his cheeks. John’s fingertips press and knead into the lean muscle on his inner thigh, smoothing up the sleek textile of his slacks. Sherlock can’t refuse him, John knows he doesn’t have the power to. He can’t scream either, has to keep all the feelings encased in a mask of composure. Table manners.

Sherlock is completely behaved and contained, and sends John a quick, broken look, asking him to stop, but John isn’t finished with him yet. Sherlock has indulged in petty torture, resorted to much baser tactics of punishment, one too many times for the doctor to let this one slide. Now John has it in for him.

Sherlock tries to keep his breaths regular as John’s fingers move to undo his zipper.

“John,” Sherlock whimpers.

“Hm?” John asks innocently, turning his head back to the blushing brunet whose pants he has his hand down.

“Please,” he breathes in a soft, pleading tone, leaning an elbow onto the table and raking his fingers into his long hair. Is so sweet he can’t even bring himself to say something that sounds more like refusal.

“Oh well, since you said please, since I’d do anything you ask and,” John cants his head aside playfully, sarcastically entertaining the idea of helping Sherlock kill himself, “You're asking for it,” He says that in such a bestially vengeful way, with such conviction, such darkness and condemnation, emphasizing the full extent of the double meaning: slut-shaming Sherlock for all the insidiousness he pulled before, licking his fork too much, baring his skin like a weapon.

“John,” John’s attention returns to Mary, “He doesn’t mean it, you know.”

Sherlock’s trying not to grit his teeth, biting softly on his index as it twirls restlessly over his canine. The pleasure surpasses another tier and he ends up biting down on his knuckle to keep the vocals at bay. “He’s sorry.” He obviously wasn’t before, but Sherlock looks very sorry right now, John thinks, smiling a smug and black-hearted smile that comes across tender and sweet as he looks into his fiancée’s eyes. “Yes, I think so.”

Sherlock is coming undone, lips parting softly, eyelashes fluttering down.

“Give him a break, ok?” she gleams at him, and John complies and gives her a kiss, distracting her for a moment while Sherlock falls apart, briefly losing control, unable to keep the pleasure from culminating on his face. John and Mary come back into focus a split second after, a open, loving couple in bliss. The most confused feeling of ecstasy and mortification washes over him as John kisses her with his hand still on him. John withdraws from the kiss, and his wet hand relinquishes him beneath the table cloth.

Sherlock is trying to moderate his breathing, but whether it’s quickening from exhilaration or aggravation he can’t parse out.

“Sorry, you’ll have to excuse me,” Sherlock stands, trousers now refastened.

“Sherlock, you didn’t eat anything,” Mary says puzzled, but Sherlock doesn’t respond as he’s making a beeline to his bedroom in long, brisk strides.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, I have to disclaim here that this fic is very, very distopian, John and Sherlock aren't really like this, you all know that right? Good? Good.


End file.
